


As Certain Dark Things

by azephirin



Series: As Certain Dark Things [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1000-3000 words, 1000-5000 Words, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Canon, As Certain Dark Things, Boarding School, Challenge Response, M/M, Porn Battle, Teacher-Student, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two people, each with their secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Certain Dark Things

**Author's Note:**

> Boarding school AU! Yeah, I finally did it. I posted [an abridged version](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/344051.html?thread=15692275#t15692275) for [](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/profile)[**oxoniensis**](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/)'s Porn Battle, but the full version is below. Title from [Sonnet XVII](http://www.utexas.edu/utpress/excerpts/exner100.html#ex1), by Pablo Neruda. Underage depending on your sensibilities: Sam is 17, Dean 21.

Sam Conover thought the best part of senior year was going to be applying to college, getting the hell out into the real world. Senior privileges like exclusive use of the heretofore forbidden Senior Circle in the middle of campus. Maybe talking his way into taking calc at the university (off-campus!) rather than as an AP class. Maybe sneaking over to St. Mary's to get laid once in a while.

He didn't figure on Dean Winchester.

Dean Winchester is one of the crop of new teachers, just out of MIT, and Sam has never wished more that he were back in algebra I. He even tries to think of some excuse—he needs a refresher course, **something**—but the fact is that he's one of the best math students they have, and there's no fathomable reason to put a graduating-with-honors senior into a freshman math class.

Then he learns that Mr. Winchester is going to be coaching the crew team. Sam has never rowed before.

That doesn't stop him.

Very little, in fact, stops Sam when he wants something.

It also happens that Mr. Winchester, like the rest of the interns (the school's term for just-out-of-college first-year teachers), has an apartment in the dorms. He's not on Sam's hall—he's one hall over—but that's close enough for Sam to appear quite innocently of an evening, asking for help with his calc homework.

As it turns out, Sam requires a lot of help on his calc homework. Oddly, only Mr. Winchester is able to explain the theorems in a way he understands.

Fall break rolls around, and Sam doesn't go home. He could take the train, or his father would send the driver, but his father will just work the entire time anyway, with maybe some time off for drinking, and really Sam has better things to do.

Mr. Winchester is one of the teachers who volunteered—or who was volunteered—to stay on campus over break with the skeleton crew of kids who are staying on campus. Naturally, Sam appears at his apartment door midafternoon on Saturday, calculus book in hand.

Mr. Winchester's mouth quirks when he opens the door to Sam's knock. He looks entirely unsurprised. "Don't you ever bother Mrs. Henderson with this stuff?" he says, but he's smiling.

"I understand it better from you," says Sam innocently.

"I'm starting to think you understand it just fine," Mr. Winchester says. "I just don't get why you need to hear it from me."

Fuck it. There's no one around. Sam's got nothing to lose. He leans against the doorframe and looks at his crew coach through his lashes. "Mr. Winchester," he purrs, "do you really need me to explain?"

There's a silence as they look at each other. Mr. Winchester's green eyes are wide with shock—and with something else. Sam can't quite name it, but he can identify it easily enough.

"You can call me Dean," Mr. Winchester says after a moment.

**************

 

Sam never thought he'd want to go to his knees for another man—that's something girls, and only girls, have always done for _him_—but when the door is closed and locked and they're inside Mr. Winchester's—Dean's—small bedroom, it's the first thing Sam does. Dean's cock is heavy and musky in his mouth, and Sam pulls back to look up at him. "I've never done this to anyone else before." He takes one of Dean's hands, puts it on his head. "Tell me what to do," Sam says.

Dean's hand tightens in Sam's hair, then loosens. "You have no idea what you look like right now." His voice is low, almost broken. "God, I've been having dreams about this. I tried not to, and they just got worse."

"You have me now." Sam leans forward to lick delicately at the head of Dean's cock, and Dean gasps. "I'm yours," Sam says. "So tell me what to do."

"I like it hard," Dean says. "And right there, under the head, on the glans—" He takes Sam's hand and shows him that spot. Sam knows it, because he likes to be touched, licked there, too.

Sam sucks Dean for a while, tonguing that small, sensitive place, using fingers to play with Dean's balls the way he himself enjoys. Sam is almost painfully hard, listening to Dean's gasps, but Sam refuses to touch himself—when he comes, he wants it to be because Dean brought it out of him. But, God, he's not sure how long he can last like this, especially not when Dean moans his name.

"Stop," Dean says, and, surprised, Sam does. Dean sits down on the bed, heavily, and puts his hands on Sam's face, kisses him. "My knees were about to give out," Dean adds, laughing breathlessly, and kisses him again, hands buried in his hair.

Dean lets him up, and Sam stretches out on the bed, runs his hands down his chest, dares to cup himself in one palm. He arches into his own touch, he can't help it, and Dean's staring again.

Sam makes a space for Dean between his legs, and Dean fits himself there like they've been doing this for years, like they were made for his, and Sam has to kiss him, can't do anything else. He's been unquestionably on top with every girl he's been with—that's just how it is—but he's not so sure now, lying here under Dean and biting his lip to keep from crying out when the shape of Dean's erect cock brushes against his own.

Dean unbuttons Sam's shirt—it's by Etro, officially a birthday present last spring, although Sam's pretty sure that his father's secretary actually bought it—and the crisp dry-clean-only fabric falls into a heap on the floor. Dean's got on a V-neck sweater, plain and soft and dark blue, and Sam sits up to pull it over his head. Jeans are next: Sam's gray Rock &amp; Republics, Dean's battered whatever-they-ares, patched in the knees. Sam's briefs, Dean's boxers.

Naked, Dean is perfect. The nubs of his nipples invite biting, and the lines of his abs are a predetermined path for Sam's tongue. Sam touches him with a reverence that's new, lying on his back and looking up at Dean, trailing his hands over his torso and thighs until he finally settles one around Dean's cock. He wants to see Dean come and come apart under his touch, and he jacks Dean slowly, gently, rubbing his thumb over the head, his forefinger over the glans. Dean's hips rock down into Sam's, and Dean breathes, "Harder. Please."

What can Sam do but comply?

Dean starts to come, and Sam watches greedily as his head goes back, his fists clench, and he spills white and hot and urgent over Sam's hand and belly. Dean opens his eyes as he shudders out the aftershocks, and Sam runs his fingers through Dean's come, lifts them to his mouth to taste it.

Dean licks the rest of it away, and Sam nearly comes just from that.

"What do you want?" Dean asks, low, moving to lie next to Sam and trace the outlines of his body with one hand. "My hand? My mouth?"

_Your cock,_ Sam almost says, but he's not sure he's ready for that. Next time, though...

"Your mouth," Sam whispers, and his wish is immediately granted.

Dean's lips are the kind of lush that give even good people ideas. Sam has never claimed to be good. He fights to keep his eyes open as Dean moves up and down on him, and he knows he isn't going to last long—he can't believe he's lasted as long as he has already. And with Dean's clever fingers exploring him, his mouth warm and wet, there's no way Sam can keep himself from coming, not while he's watching Dean's eyes fall closed as he sucks Sam's cock. "I—I'm—" is all the warning he's able to manage (it's rude to come in a girl's mouth if she doesn't say you can, and Sam figures the same rule applies to guys), but Dean doesn't pull back and jack him through the rest of it; instead he wraps a hand around Sam's hip and does it harder, cheeks hollowing, and that's it, Sam's done. He can't bite back his cry this time, and his vision goes white when orgasm hits, the most intense of his life, obliterating everything but himself and Dean.

It takes Sam a few minutes to recover, and he's sprawled across Dean's chest when he does. Dean's stroking his hair, and he lightly kisses the top of Sam's head. "You OK?"

"I am so more than OK," Sam says.

Dean doesn't seem to be freaking out about the student/teacher thing, at least not yet, and Sam's not going to encourage him. It's against the rules—it's way, way, way against the rules—but it's not like Sam has ever had much regard for the rules anyway, unless they can somehow get him what he wants. He kisses Dean's chest and spreads a hand over where, below, surrounded by muscle and protected by bone, his heart is.

Outside, it's cloudy, and without lights on, the room is darker even than the steely grey of the late afternoon. The darkness is somehow more intimate, and they lie together, talking, kissing, exploring each other.

They discover they were both adopted: Sam when he was six months old, Dean unofficially by his aunt and uncle. "There was a fire," he says, drawing circles on Sam's back. "My mom and my little brother died, but my dad and I made it. After that, he kind of...he kind of lost it. Took off after what he thought killed my mom, and left me with my mom's sister and her husband."

"Did he ever find it?" Sam wonders a little bit that Dean uses _it_ and not _him_ (or even _her_), but doesn't remark on it.

"My aunt said once, 'He's looking for something he better pray he never finds,' but she wouldn't explain what she meant. I don't know. It's like this big blank space that no one talks about. I was pretty young when they died, but I swear I remember carrying my brother out. Everybody says he died, though—that there's no way that could have happened. I even looked up the death certificate the last time I was home in Lawrence, and everything was in place. So I guess...it's one of those situations where you wish so hard for something that your mind starts to believe it's true."

"I'm sorry," Sam says, and he is.

"It was a long time ago," Dean says, like that somehow makes it less bad.

"Your dad's still around?"

"Yeah, he turns up now and then. He came to my college graduation, but I wouldn't have even seen him if I hadn't happened to glance at the back of the yard when I went up to get my diploma. No one else in the family saw him." Dean shifts, says, "Your family's in Connecticut?"

"New Canaan. Pretty much rich asshole central. My dad fits right in."

"What about your mom?"

"She's dead."

It's Dean's turn to say, "I'm sorry," and Sam says, "Thanks." He buries his face in Dean's neck, smelling his soap and clean sweat, and when Dean's arms come around him, Sam thinks, with a certainty that scares him a little, _This is where I belong._

He opens his mouth and says something he's never said aloud before. "I saw it happen."

"God, Sam, that's awful."

"I don't mean when it actually happened. I wasn't there. They were driving back from Nantucket—I stayed home because I had a swim meet. I saw...I saw it happen ahead of time. I begged them not to go, and when they went anyway, I asked them to wait and come back maybe a day or so later. Just long enough that it wouldn't be raining anymore. My dad told me I was being neurotic and he had to go to work Monday, and they drove back Sunday night in the rain, and somebody coming in the other direction hydroplaned and hit them. My dad broke his arm but he was ultimately fine. My mom was killed."

"And you saw it ahead of time?"

"I dreamed it. Same thing with our housekeeper's son—he really wanted to go bungee jumping, and I dreamed that the cable was going to break, and I told Maria about it and she didn't let him go."

"So he was OK?"

"Juan was fine. But one of his friends, who did go, his cable broke, and now he's paralyzed. I guess that's better, because I don't know him, and I've known Maria and her family my whole life, but it still sucks pretty hard. He's one of Juan's really good friends." Sam adds, "My dad doesn't really talk to me much, after what happened with my mom. I think he blames himself, and maybe it's easier to blame me, too, in some oblique way."

"You think you'll ever try to find your birth parents?"

"I don't know," Sam says. "Probably not. I mean, if they didn't want me then, why would they want me now?"

"Maybe it's not that simple," Dean says. "People give kids away for all kinds of reasons. Your parents might have been really young, or really poor, or both, and felt like they couldn't raise a kid and do a good job of it."

"But I wasn't adopted at birth; it was a few months later. Why keep a kid and then give him away?"

"Maybe they tried, and realized they couldn't do it," Dean says. "I'm just saying, you never know."

"Maybe," Sam says. He kisses the underside of Dean's jaw, his temple; takes Dean's earlobe into his mouth and sucks gently. Dean shivers.

"If you're trying for a distraction," Dean says, "it's working."

Sam smiles. "Good."

**************************

 

In a battered black car on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, a man pulls into the parking lot of a rest stop and consults a road atlas. He's not even halfway to where he's going, and he's still got hundreds of miles to go.

On the seventy-fifth floor of a skyscraper in the Financial District of New York City, a man sits in his office, immersed in documents collected during discovery for a real-estate lawsuit. It's late afternoon on a weekend, but he won't go home for several hours.

In their front yard in Lawrence, Kansas, a man and his wife mulch their garden. Their pumpkins aren't State Fair prizewinners, but they're fine enough that most of their neighborhood buys them for Halloween.

And on the second floor of a stone building, Gothic and gray, in Rockshire, Massachusetts, two people, each with their secrets, fall in love.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has a sequel, [Set the Fire to the Third Bar](http://archiveofourown.org/works/57137).


End file.
